


i'm sorry hanukkah

by coyotekillah



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Feeding, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21875566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotekillah/pseuds/coyotekillah
Summary: He’s (sometimes) into normal porn. He can do normal.But there’s no denying it’s a thing.( blatant and unapologetic kink fic ft. the holiday season )
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 235





	i'm sorry hanukkah

Loving Richie is easy. It’s practically the easiest thing he’s ever done. He’s everything Eddie has wanted for twenty-seven long and repressed years, years of wanting things he couldn’t necessarily explain so far as he felt them so deeply it was an ache — things like dark hair and a scrunched nose, or somebody who’d laugh at his driest, most incongruous jokes. Richie is all of Eddie’s favorite things wrapped up into a singular and definitive person. Richie shines. He takes up a room without trying. He sweeps Eddie up under his arm and beams at him, all arched brows and an overbite, and Eddie melts to nothing. They get along. They do everything as a pair. They argue — but never spitefully. They fuck like rabbits. Richie knows precisely how Eddie likes his morning coffee and Eddie knows not to wake Richie up before eight o’clock if he wants him remotely coherent. 

So you’d think Eddie would have no problem getting over this particular thing. Or at least he’d be a little more prone to _talking_ about it. It shouldn’t be so goddamn embarrassing, but it really does burn him up, realizing he’s always had an affinity for it — an affinity he’d only stuffed down, down, down, willing it away, wanting desperately to be the normal All-American boy who liked skinny blondes with big tits. See? Like Adam Sandler and David Spade? And maybe he can. Maybe he can pretend, because Richie’s blue eyes and strong arms do him in already — it’s not like his size is a prerequisite to getting his rocks off, or anything. He’s (sometimes) into normal porn. He can do _normal._

But there’s no denying it’s a thing. 

He realized it was creeping into his relationship with Richie a little too late, all things considered. It hadn’t even _occurred_ to him that he was acting unconsciously. He loved Richie, and he wanted to take good care of Richie. Taking good care of Richie meant serving seconds and thirds of dinner. It wasn’t fast food garbage — well, _sometimes,_ if Richie begged and Eddie gave into the prospect of Chicken McNuggets — but usually, it was Eddie’s home cooking. He was talented in the kitchen. Since following Richie back to Los Angeles like a sick puppy, he hadn’t yet settled into another profession, but he made himself plenty useful in cooking and cleaning. General housekeeping. Housekeeping, as it stood, involved good, hearty food. Comfort food like stuffed shells (Richie always got sauce under his mouth), casseroles, pumpkin bread, and Eddie’s favorite to prepare — homemade pies. He was very particular about it, too. He’d try different recipes and stick the finished products atop the counter, and they’d mysteriously disappear. Eddie initially wondered if Richie was tossing them in the garbage. 

That is, until he’d followed Richie upstairs for bed, and found an empty pie tin resting atop the bedside table. Richie had tunneled under the blankets and was snoring peacefully. Upon further inspection, Eddie noted cherry pie filling stuck to the corners of his mouth. 

Richie hummed. He blinked his eyes partly open, squinting at Eddie in the dark without his glasses. 

“You’re a mess,” said Eddie. He could feel himself blushing straight down his neck. “Look at you.”

“I’m not sorry.” But Richie was hardly awake. He let Eddie smudge the filling off his face, smiling, and rolled over to continue sleeping. He began to snore again within minutes. 

Eddie got out of bed carefully, as not to disturb him a second time. He disposed of the pie tin promptly and properly — he didn’t want _ants,_ thanks. Then he stormed into the bathroom, started up the shower, and jerked off so furiously that his wrist cramped in two places.

_That was fucked up. That was fucked up._ It followed him until the next morning. It practically weighed him down, ironically enough. It wasn’t as if Richie had remained small: he’d been a weed growing up, long and thin like a dandelion stem, but he’d softened considerably even before their second stint in Derry. Handsomely, at that. He’d gotten broad and strong. When Eddie saw him for the first time in so long, he wasn’t focused on the slight, age-appropriate pooch of his stomach — he’d only had eyes for his shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw. 

Now, upon doing laundry, Eddie notes the tags on Richie’s slacks and jeans. _Thirty-eight._ He could have sworn Richie was something like a thirty-four, a thirty-six sometimes. He’s flooded with an irrational, embarrassing sense of pride anyhow. 

For a while, he thought maybe Richie would say something first. He would mention some concern or another about his weight, and Eddie would assure him that he was perfectly good-looking anyhow, if not _more_ so. And Richie would… Well, he’d do something. Maybe he’d _suggest_ it. _Boy oh boy, Spaghetti-Man, am I glad to hear you’re as sick a fuck as I am! Wanna watch me have at some chow-mein?_

_You’re a fucking idiot, Eddie Kaspbrak._

* * *

On the first night of Hanukkah, Bill visits. It’s easier for him than the others because he only lives just up the way in Beverly Hills. He brings a plastic container of Mott’s applesauce, having apparently read that it qualifies as a “Jewish product,” and Richie laughs so hysterically that he chokes.

Eddie cooks — _really_ cooks. He’d wanted to make the holiday special for Richie. Which doesn’t make too much sense, because Richie celebrated both Hanukkah _and_ Christmas as a kid and seems to know less about Jewish tradition than Eddie sometimes, but it makes him feel good to try. He fries latkes and even homemade jelly doughnuts, the result of which is not especially pretty but extremely tasty, and serves chicken noodle soup with homemade stock he’d simmered on the stove for hours. The soup isn’t really a Jewish thing — but the prospect of matzah meal had terrified him, frankly.

“Food’s great, Eds.” Bill flashes him a closed smile with his mouth full. Eddie nods approvingly, picking at his own (regretfully store-bought) Challah bread. 

“Eddie’s a great cook,” says Richie. He kicks at Eddie’s ankle under the kitchen table. “He does everything. Literally everything. He makes this _crazy_ fucking peach pie, like, with cinnamon and nutmeg and stuff. And he makes his own whipped cream with the hand mixer.” 

“I didn’t know you liked the peach that much.” Eddie is quietly delighted by the fact. 

“It’s my favorite.” Richie turns to bill. “Does the wife cook?”  
  


Bill proceeds into a spiel about Audra (whom Eddie met once and found polite enough, albeit rather icy and seemingly confused by Bill’s sudden corral of old friends), and Richie finishes his second serving of bread and soup. He sips at the last dregs of his beer in a finalizing sort of gesture. Eddie, however, immediately reaches for the empty bowl and breezes into the kitchen to fix him a third. It’s a mindless thing. He just tends to assume Richie’s still hungry unless he says otherwise — or unloops his belt, as had happened once and still sends shivers up and down Eddie’s spine if he thinks about it for very long. He spears off another slice of Challah and chops it into cubes how Richie likes; it all goes directly into a generous serving of chicken noodle soup, which Eddie places carefully atop Richie’s placemat. Richie smiles at him so warmly that his eyes crinkle up at the corners. 

“Jesus, Rich.” Bill’s eyebrows quirk up slightly. “Are you eating for two or something?” 

Richie laughs. But he also does something that burns Eddie up, right down to his feet and up again: he pats his stomach through the fabric of his henley shirt. “Eddie keeps me well-fed. Right, Eds?”

Eddie fades out for a second. He only realizes he’s blushing pink because Bill carries the same knowing expression he used to make so many years ago, when they were all stupid kids and Richie would pinch at him and call him _cute-cute-cute!_ “Dude, shut the fuck up.”

It’s fine. Bill and Richie laugh, and the moment passes. But Eddie still feels uncomfortably warm. They light the menorah’s first candle and Richie does the dishes like always — Bill leaves sometime around ten o’clock. Eddie showers and meets Richie in bed. They’ve got their routines, same as anybody, wherein they make mushy eyes at one another over _Jeopardy!_ reruns and Eddie pretends to be annoyed when Richie kisses behind his ear. 

Missionary does the job just fine for Eddie, who prefers to see Richie’s face and kiss him during — but Richie likes to experiment. He props Eddie’s legs up on his shoulders (stuffing a pillow under his hips, partly to be polite and partly because Eddie would complain of a stiff back the next morning otherwise) and grasps tightly at his ankles. Eddie pants shallow little noises. He arches his back into a curve when Richie bottoms out, ripping at the bed sheets but nonetheless remaining somewhat cool and collected — up until Richie bends forward in an embrace. Their chests touch. More importantly, Richie’s stomach presses at Eddie’s, heavy and full and warm. Eddie wants desperately to grope at him. He doesn’t realize he’s said “ _Fuck”_ out loud until Richie mumbles, “You okay?”

“What?” Eddie feels delirious. “Fucking fuck me.” 

Richie appears slightly taken aback, but he complies quickly enough with a flash of a grin. He drags up and out only to jolt back into place, catching Eddie so deep that he can practically feel Richie in his chest. Eddie hikes his legs up further and wraps his arms around Richie’s shoulders; for every buck of Richie’s hips Eddie gasps out a wrecked sound, but he’s still thinking about how _fat_ Richie’s gotten, how he dropped weight after Derry and Stanley and living in Los Angeles alone again — but that he, Eddie, had the wherewithal and the good cooking to make him happy and full again. _Well-fed,_ he had said. That’s very much the case. Richie is a good eater. Eddie is more than glad to stuff him up, to rub slow circles into his belly until he’s comfortable and content, to ride him stupid, to fuck his mouth and cum down his throat and you’d best believe Richie swallows because he’s got _such_ a good appetite— 

Eddie cums hard with a yelp, drawing his legs up tight around Richie’s neck. He clings at him for a long time. Richie rocks deep into Eddie and stays there; Eddie sobs out a pleading sound.

“Woah.” Richie holds him steady. “That was fast. You okay?”

“Sorry,” whispers Eddie, but he’s not. “Keep going.”

* * *

He doesn’t like buffet-style restaurants. They’re unsanitary for a long list of reasons: all of the people breathing down on sloppy sheet pans of fried food, dirty hands touching the same pairs of tongs, and god _forbid,_ heat lamps. Nonetheless, he ultimately decides to set his reservations aside — quite literally — for Richie. He’s admittedly hot under the collar even before they arrive, the pair of them situated in his car with Richie fidgeting with the settings on the radio with a cute furrow in his brow. They take date night very seriously. It’s probably too colloquial a term given the depths at which they’ll dive to spoil the other person _—_ things like trips to San Clemente and Dole Whips at DisneyLand. But Richie’s particularly spent after an exhausting executive meeting uptown, and Eddie’s got his own set of ulterior motives, so he pulls into the lot of some chintzy All-You-Can-Eat. It’s packed even for a Friday. Eddie finds himself wondering who the hell is so ecstatic to get to LA’s New World Buffet when there are a million nicer places within spitting distance, but then he sees Richie practically glowing in the passenger seat, and his whims are effectively silenced. 

“Dude,” says Richie. He wags his brows. “ _Dude._ ”

“Dude,” agrees Eddie.

“Dude!” Richie climbs out of the car, meets Eddie at the driver side, and meets him in a crushing hug. (Eddie likes those. He gets to rest his face against Richie’s chest, smelling his cologne and his body soap, but he’s got to get on his tippy toes if he wants to peck Richie’s lips properly.) They cling at one another for a long second until Eddie pries himself away and points at the entrance, mock-impatient. 

“We’re going to be late for our reservation if we keep fucking around out here.” He reaches up to fix the collar of Richie’s shirt. “Tell them my name.”

“You really ought to use mine, Eddie-baby.” Richie gets the door and props it open with one elbow. “You know. Famous people privilege and all. Or we could start using Justin Timberlake’s and get the _really_ nice seats.”

“I don’t give a shit about where we sit.” Frankly, Eddie hates when Richie is recognized in public. He takes no issue with an average joe’s accommodations — although he wishes the chairs were scrubbed more regularly. With _soap._

“Whatever you’d like, sugar-bee.”

It’s loud and crowded. Eddie doesn’t quite like the noise, but he _does_ like how Richie’s eyes light up excited behind his eyeglasses. They settle into a roomy booth and Eddie makes their usual drink order — a Coke with lemon and two waters. They always split the Coke.

Eddie doesn’t pay any mind toward building his own plate. Here and there he picks up certain things, more or less with the intent to pawn off on Richie later. There are breakfast foods, Asian, Hawaiian bread and pineapple ham, baked lasagna; the desserts range from an ice cream bar to an impressive-looking chocolate fountain. He does eventually settle on a few items with the intent to actually _eat_ them but only because he’s starving (and because the sweet potatoes are served with marshmallows). 

Richie manages to fill his plate only at the second aisle of food. “Guess I’m tapped out.”

“Just get another plate.” Eddie tries hard to sound casual. “You’re just going to get up again anyway.”

For a second Richie looks like Eddie has redefined his entire worldview. “I can do that?”

“Somebody just touched the hush puppies with their hands. I don’t think there are any rules here, honestly.”

That’s how Richie manages to collect two plates’ worth of food — and that’s only for starters. So far as Eddie’s concerned, he won’t settle for less than four. Because buffet-style is _expensive._ And there’s no harm in eating well. And — and because Richie’s _hot,_ so hot, especially while he’s stuffing his face. He tends to eat like a starving man whether it be a holiday dinner or wheat toast for breakfast. Eddie finds himself staring off into space (see: at Richie) no less than five or six times as he polishes his first plate. 

Richie is scraping the last bit of mashed potato atop his fork when he catches Eddie staring the sixth time. He’s kind of smiling, but in an embarrassed way — which is not exactly common for Richie Tozier. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Eddie squeezes his fork until it hurts. “Because I love you.”

“D’aw.” Still, Richie raises his brows. “I’m kind of surprised at you. Tonight was your pick, babe.” 

“I know,” he says defensively. 

“You’re hardly eating.”

“I’m eating!” He gestures wildly at his plate, which has gone ignored sans his sweet potatoes. “I just… Got too much. Take some of mine.” He nudges at a buttered roll on a napkin. 

“I’ve got, like, two of those.”

“Three’s a better number,” blurts Eddie without thinking, and he wonders if he’s imagining the beginnings of a flush in Richie’s ears. 

“If you really want.” Richie reaches for Eddie’s roll and takes a bite, shrugging. He’s got to lick at the corner of his mouth to catch a drip of melted butter. It takes a second for him to finish, chewing steady, swallowing and chasing all of the salt with a sip of Coke — but when he does, he winks. “I love you too, by the way.”

Eddie’s heart rattles in his chest like a machine gun. “You want another soda?”

* * *

“Eddie, I _can’t._ ” Richie sounds defeated — or just nauseated. He’s leaning forward onto the table, staring down at the thick slice of chocolate cake Eddie had fetched the minute Richie managed to admit he was _full._ Full is one thing, and completely, utterly stuffed is another. Some five plates had done Richie in, all of which were piled high with hot food, and he seems to be regretting his fourth helping of macaroni and cheese now that he’s got dessert to contend with. Eddie could have been even less accommodating. There were swiss rolls and jelly-filled pastries, ice cream sundaes with caramel sauce, but he’d spied the cake and decided it’d do the trick. It’s rich, served with whipped icing and shredded chocolate, and topped by a singular syrupy-sweet strawberry. 

“You’ve got to have dessert.” Eddie wound up on Richie’s side of their booth some time ago. They’re pressed together, elbow to elbow. “It’s only one piece. We can’t take it home, and it’d be a waste if you didn’t have _some._ See how nice it looks?”

Richie groans. Eddie has never seen him like this before. He leans back delicately, like he’s afraid a sudden movement will upset his stomach further; he’s begun to strain visibly at the buttoned front of his shirt. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Hey,” soothes Eddie. “You’ve got this, buddy. Just…” He’s worried his voice will crack, so he stops to mumble, “you’ve just got to unbutton your pants. Make room.”

Richie considers this for a second. He looks around warily, before sneaking his hands under the table to slip open the button on his jeans. The zipper shoots down immediately without having to be touched. Eddie feels what can only be described as a head rush, his whole body buzzing like he’s full of bees; as Richie sighs, deeply relieved, Eddie grasps for a spare fork and spears a piece of cake. He raises it carefully to Richie’s mouth. 

Richie might be more inclined to ask what the fuck Eddie’s damage was if he wasn’t fighting the hiccups. He visibly stifles a burp, but nonetheless opens his mouth obediently. They make quick work of the cake that way. For every swallow, Richie shifts uncomfortably in his seat; Eddie presses the strawberry against Richie’s lips until he laps up the syrup, hiccuping once, and chews and swallows the rest in a single, oversized bite. 

“See?” Eddie doesn’t recognize his own voice. He sounds soft and sentimental, squeezing affectionately at Richie’s arm. “I told you so.”

“No more,” begs Richie, but he looks at Eddie like he could make the choice for him: _If you wanted, I’d try for another slice._

Eddie wonders if he’s visibly hard. “No more,” he agrees, and _almost_ touches Richie’s stomach — but instead, sets a comforting hand against the small of his back. “Let’s get you home, Rich. You’re a good boy. You know that?”

As always, being referred to as a _good boy_ works like a charm. He brightens up some even as he struggles to reaffix the button of his jeans. Eddie grins, patting his back reassuringly, and after footing the bill and leaving a generous tip they make it to their car without incident. Richie props his seat all the way back and lies flat with another miserable groan. 

“Poor baby.” Eddie cranks the heat (and the seat warmers). “Some guys just can’t hold their arsenic.”

“Don’t quote showtunes at me right now, you fag. I fucking hate you.” 

“How’d you recognize it, then? Fag.”

“Fag,” repeats Richie just as an excuse to say it, and they both break into hysterical giggles like middle schoolers. They’re cut short by a deep, heavy burp, and Richie moaning — _moaning._ Eddie clutches hard at the steering wheel until his knuckles turn pink and then white. He pulls out of the parking lot with another quiet coo when Richie breaks into another series of hiccups. He’s _really_ full. So full that his body’s rejecting all of the food, sticky and greasy and heavy. So full that, as Eddie realizes upon cruising to a stop at a red light, Richie has begun to stroke at the curve of his belly in the silent hope of lessening his discomfort. 

Eddie begins to speed around that point. He parks like a madman, and he rushes to the other side of the car as to help Richie out of his seat. Richie clings to Eddie’s shoulder; he’s untucked his shirt and unlooped his belt, so that the waistband of his jeans sink to accommodate his gut. They clamor into the elevator and the moment the door shuts, Eddie hikes up onto his tippy toes and meets Richie in a sloppy, desperate kiss. His mouth tastes faintly like Dutch chocolate. 

“Whoa.” He mumbles into Eddie’s mouth. “Are you fucking hard right now?”

“Let me touch you.” The selfish part of Eddie wants to _fuck —_ but Richie’s stuffed and sore, so he’ll spoil him instead. Eddie’s already so deeply aroused that he can feel precum seeping into the front of his underwear. “You did _so_ good, Richie. I love you so much.” 

Richie looks at him. The elevator _dings_ as it reaches their floor. Then the door slides open, and he asks sort of incredulously, “Are you into this?”

“Get in the fucking apartment.”

They both do. Richie sheds his coat and Eddie kicks off his shoes so haphazardly that they crash into the wall. Then he grabs Richie’s arm, yanking him down into a crouch, and kisses him again. And again. And again. He’s so lovesick that he forgets there’s anything to life whatsoever beyond kissing Richie Tozier, clawing up his back so that he’ll dip further and Eddie can deepen the kiss, but he remembers what they’re supposed to be doing when Richie begins to paw at the front of his slacks. Right.

Eddie pushes Richie into their bed. Richie obliges, hands raising to unbutton his shirt, but Eddie thwaps him (gently) on the shoulder and proceeds to do it himself. Richie’s stomach is warm to the touch, coarse with dark hair and tight as a drum, save for the soft pooch of his hips and waist. Eddie lays up against him, pleased as he automatically earns a strong arm around his shoulders, and hikes down his pants. They’re _tight._ Tighter than Eddie remembers. Richie grunts; his stomach gurgles.

“I’m about to cum in my fucking pants,” says Eddie through grit teeth. He grasps at Richie’s dick and squeezes. 

Richie squirms slightly. He huffs out a sigh, raising a hand to tease through Eddie’s hair. His face is pink. “Talk me through it.”

Eddie thumbs at Richie’s tip; he’s flushed thick and heavy, leaking in thin, translucent rivulets across Eddie’s fingers. “You couldn’t even fuck me if you wanted right now, could you? You were so _greedy_ tonight. You ate yourself so sick I practically had to haul you into the car.” He squeezes at Richie’s side, then the massive swell of his gut, and Richie sucks in a breath. “You’ve gotten so fat. I love it. I love feeding you. I love — I love that you’re so _hungry,_ baby. You’d never turn down seconds of anything. You’re so good. You do what I tell you to do, and you never complain, do you? You just listen to me, don’t you?” 

Richie twitches in Eddie’s hand. He nods feverishly, eyes screwed shut. 

“My good boy,” breathes Eddie, and he picks up a rhythm. “I know our friends must see how fat you’ve gotten. And they know it’s because of me. Because I treat you right. I spoil you. You’re spoiled, aren’t you? I want you to say it.”

“I’m spoiled,” mutters Richie.

“Say it like you mean it.” 

“I’m _spoiled,_ ” says Richie, panting now. “You spoil me. And everybody knows it.”

“And why’s that, Rich?” Eddie’s pace quickens. 

“Because,” he sucks in a shaky, desperate breath, “because I’m a good boy.”

Eddie buries his face in Richie’s shoulder. He’s on _fire._ Richie cums, shaking and gasping, and Eddie strokes him through it; it’s only once he’s milked the entirety of his orgasm that Eddie tears away, shoves down his pants, and pumps at his dick like it’s the end of the fucking universe. His underwear is utterly soaked — so much so that it’s made a dark spot in the front of his slacks, but Eddie couldn’t possibly care less in that moment. He ruts up into his hand mindlessly, grasping at Richie’s chest and stomach with his free hand, and he climaxes so suddenly that it feels like all of the life is spilling out of him, painting his stomach, dripping warm and sticky down his thighs. He shudders out a sigh when he’s finished. He couldn’t stand even if he tried. 

“So,” says Richie in a voice like he’s still partly confused, “we were into that, right?”

Eddie sees stars in the ceiling. “Fucking definitely.”

**Author's Note:**

> i didn't draft as well as i should've so my sincerest apologies for any grammatical errors
> 
> but i'm not sorry for the rest of it


End file.
